Tuesday, November 22, 2011

A Poem by the Google V-Mail Translator

this is
Rainstuff calling Cincinnati
returning your call
you instead of mold inside the salt
think probably what it is
The One
the salt and thy air
and the water
makes it grow together,
it tends to follow,
mop and afterwards
it's Sarah
who looks kinda gray
and do not touch
that looks very good
but, I'm sure it's just mold,
but, either way, all that would
need to be done
is assault
tank care
what the salt?!

with the U.S. Pass
some drive to the gym
but I forgot to do another
I was going to go work
but I have been changed
Jim in.
Landris, I have been yellow
my whole life there
phone bench birthdays
You have a holy spirit
of a bedspread
since he says,
amen brother.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Embalmer's Lament

Bucket of dirty blood
bleached memories
that mop the floor
I’m manic depressive
over the dim hours
to your touch.

Upon the cold slab
chills rattle the spine
arterial injection making
faint eyes water
but I don't dare
spell out your fate
tell you that.

Silence upon the super glued lips
secured mandible suture
semi macue
and thus, you will speak no more
about those daring events
that delivered your death
two slugs to the stomach
one in the chest
upon a Halloween night burglary
gone mischievously wrong.

Sixteen years to nothing
trocar stab to the guts
aspiration of emotion
pumped up high
stitch the crime scene closed
naked in, naked out
eye caps seal
the upward stare
imprison the windows to the soul
rattled remorse stalks
the vanishing dreams
of the grieving
nowhere never looked so glamorous
in the rubbery pallor
of your stoic presentation.

I made a paycheck this afternoon
dropping the guts of the autopsied
into a bright red bucket
splashed with a hint of cavity fluid
stirred but not shaken
for the perfect martini of preservation
sipped not before a lifetime
that brushed up awful close
against the finality of your stillness
silent door bell,
like a dog whistle,
Dr. Death on the front porch
and, without further ado
I bleach mop the floors
cover you with a white sheet
wash my hands
wipe off my shoes
punch the clock
and walk out the door.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Tuesday Morning

A sad violin underwater
ten thousand slugs on a cold sidewalk
Northern Californian earthquake
pigeon night
decay of angry blue tarps
my brain makes sense of nothing
it is a tar filter
sucked through with nicotine smoke
terrible freeways
and pimps in pointed Gucci shoes.

Pass the butter
but, gone is the knife
hidden in her purse
waiting to spread blood
across the burnt toast of
battered feuds
and mechanical relationships
rusting in rain water

I am the fax machine
the timber dawn is burning
time clock hat
I wear you
for 40 hours a week
and still my
batting average

Nothing but the whole entire world
between us
I bruise easily
Facebook flagellation
I see the status changing
faster then dirty underwear
quicker then a hiccup
titanium bottle rocket
steel salamanders
slippery vacancy
my baby ain't no dim bulb
she lights up the entire

Cat scratch fever
William Grant Stills
my oboe is a hobo
a handkerchief of effeminate snot
fish tank
fog horn
saber tooth office supplies
hang me on a wall
without arms or legs
and call me

Sunday, November 6, 2011


When the grenade came over the wall
it was Sunday
and my soul was weak from
a constant and continual
barrage of
loose women
and bad luck
so I just held my breathe
and let it go off
with a huge

… I was reduced to a million pieces.

Then came a text message
it wasn’t God
or Jesus
or Satan
or the Grim Reaper
nobody from the great beyond
it wasn’t even my sister
my lawyer
or my baby’s momma
a woman
a good woman, in fact,
that thought that
at the end of this storm
ravaging the Mojave desert
upon this broken Sunday afternoon
would be a rainbow.

She was waiting for it
her text message
actually stated that
she couldn’t wait to see it
so I stared out my window
in vain
looking for it
desperate in fact
and, not seeing it
I got out the binoculars
searched every end of the horizon
hoping to catch just a glimpse
of this colorful arch of hope
looking to pin point the exact location
of it’s gift of potted gold
but, alas
I saw nothing.

The pieces of my soul
were still scattered
around the room
and, with little strips of scotch tape
some glue
I fastened something resembling myself
back together.

Not a bad likeness I thought
as I held it up to the light
in fact
life outside the margins
never looked so good!

I got a beer out of the refrigerator
as the sun crept back into the horizon.

Rainbows are always out there
just hidden in the clouds
invisible to us
until the time comes
when they feel it is appropriate
to present themselves
sometimes they take the form of
winning lottery tickets
winning horses
free meals
rides home
loose change on the sidewalk
just good women
that like to text message
hopeful things
to guys whose
souls are splattered
all over the living room

She Decided

Strange sir
how this document
sat in the computer
for many weeks
with nothing more then a mere title
“She Decided”
and how
upon this night
I decided to compose
these words
that have nothing to do with the title
or it’s original intent
so here goes:

That her hair was flaxen mayonnaise
for the white noise
attracted men
like moths to the lantern light
and locked up
inside the delirium of romance
quite a few concessions
many young boys made
before the altar of her piss stained underwear ...

(I don’t know. That seems a little shocking for shocking’s sake!)

Maybe this …

Bleed knife
your memorabilia of sound
spins like the tilt a whirl
in a dust lot carnival
your big brown swollen eyes
are sick from crying
and I have invented many lies
for your cautious heart.

(Hum … that’s kinda of all right! But what the fuck has she decided?)

Maybe this:

Upon hours of intense personal introspection
accompanied by prescription pills and 21st century values
she concurred life had no meaning
without a credit card and a quick cash call
consumer me into the next wing
sedate me with all the things that money can buy
for the dingy hallway of poverty
I linger in
makes my cunt dry
and turns my pubic hair into a million angry snakes!

(I don’t know if accordions could help this poem.
But, if I had one I would certainly start playing!)

I may never have been to Japan or Missouri
but I have been to this world up inside my skull that
no one else has journeyed to
most women don’t care much
for this line of thought
how do I know
exactly what lines
the thought process travels
well, I have watched it click inside
their marble cat eyes
like a homeless man’s shopping cart
barreling down
the empty boulevard
at 2 a.m.

Alas! Manslaughter is our only recourse!
You can do time and get out
with enough years to enjoy
some leisurely hours around
the swimming pool of life.

(damn … this is going nowhere)

Darling Joan
I have sensed some murmurs of dissatisfaction
emanating from the crinkled flesh of your brow
this leads me to believe
your first son was killed in a car wreck
perpetrated by an alcoholic uncle
that loses all control of the wheel
every night
after 5 p.m.
and that your ex-husband
has more in common
with a pack of Marlboro Reds
then with you …

My dear,
I could love you for an hour
but not a single second more.

(fucking terrible - dispense with the riddle and give em’ the …)

What did SHE DECIDE?!?!?!?!?!!?

Damn good question.

The Five W's

the light sends us
asking not the question of
we can hang
the noose
as always
in the past tense of being
the pitch black
only comforts a finger
from a corpse, an oblong ring,
the rot is
a tri-angular love affair
and the
oh, those
God damn conclusions!
already drawn
way before
seems to be
the best
can do
caged within
this carnival mirrored existence
leaving just before
down at the skeleton station
for God's sake